The Imperialist eBook

“As far as I know,” he said, “the
application was dismissed on its demerits.”

“Of course it was,” said Mr Winter good-humouredly.
“You don’t need to tell me that.
Well, now, this looks like dancing. Miss Filkin,
I see, is going to oblige on the piano. Now I
wonder whether I’m going to get Miss Dora to
give me a waltz or not.”

Chairs and table were in effect being pushed back,
and folding doors opened which disclosed another room
prepared for this relaxation. Miss Filkin began
to oblige vigorously on the piano, Miss Dora granted
Mr Winter’s request, which he made with elaborate
humour as an impudent old bachelor whom “the
boys” would presently take outside and kill.
Lorne watched him make it, envying him his assurance;
and Miss Milburn was aware that he watched and aware
that he envied. The room filled with gaiety and
movement: Mr Milburn, sidling dramatically along
the wall to escape the rotatory couples, admonished
Mr Murchison to get a partner. He withdrew himself
from the observation of Miss Dora and Mr Winter, and
approached a young lady on a sofa, who said “With
very great pleasure.” When the dance was
over he re-established the young lady on the sofa
and fanned her with energy. Looking across the
room, he saw that Walter Winter, seated beside Dora,
was fanning himself. He thought it disgusting
and, for some reason which he did not pause to explore,
exactly like Winter. He had met Miss Milburn
once or twice before without seeing her in any special
way: here, at home, the centre of the little
conventions that at once protected and revealed her,
conventions bound up in the impressive figures of
her mother and her aunt, she had a new interest, and
all the attraction of that which is not easily come
by. It is also possible that although Lorne had
met her before, she had not met him; she was meeting
him now for the first time, as she sat directly opposite
and talked very gracefully to Walter Winter.
Addressing Walter Winter, Lorne was the object of
her pretty remarks. While Mr Winter had her superficial
attention, he was the bland medium which handed her
on. Her consciousness was fixed on young Mr Murchison,
quite occupied with him: she could not imagine
why they had not asked him long ago; he wasn’t
exactly “swell,” but you could see he was
somebody. So already she figured the potential
distinction in the set of his shoulders and the carriage
of his head. It might have been translated in
simple terms of integrity and force by anyone who
looked for those things. Miss Milburn was incapable
of such detail, but she saw truly enough in the mass.

Lorne, on the opposite sofa, looked at her across
the town’s traditions of Milburn exclusiveness.
Oddly enough, at this moment when he might have considered
that he had overcome them, they seemed to gather force,
exactly in his line of vision. He had never before
been so near Dora Milburn, and he had never before
perceived her so remote. He had a sense of her
distance beyond those few yards of carpet quite incompatible
with the fact. It weighed upon him, but until
she sent him a sudden unexpected smile he did not
know how heavily. It was a dissipating smile;
nothing remained before it. Lorne carefully restored
his partner’s fan, bowed before her, and went
straight across the room.